whom the will of God had called to mourn the loss of their best earthly friend, and the head of their little family; and in thanksgiving for the instructions they had received through her life and in her death. At the conclusion of this address to the throne of grace, they all slowly arose, and in a short time began to consult on the steps proper to be taken. Mrs Henderson offered to procure assistance, or in any way to make herself useful. they modestly declined any aid, assuring her they were competent to performing the last duties to the remains of their dear mother; and did not wish the sanctity of their feelings to be invaded by the presence of a stranger.

But

This state of feeling was so perfectly in accordance with Mrs Henderson's, that she offered no objection. The son named the day of interment, and requested her to attend; which having promised, and finding nothing more to detain her, she silently withdrew, and with her son, returned to the noisy, thoughtless world, in the city.

Mrs Henderson forbore to make any remarks to her son upon the scene at which they had been present. It was one of those impressive but natural occurrences, to which she had looked, and hoped her son might witness, in the belief that such events were best calculated to sink into his heart, and work a change in his ble to the perception of religious truth.

feelings favora

And powerful as her own emotions had been, she had not lost sight of the effect it might, by the blessing of God, and her own improvement of the opportunity, have on the mind of her

son.

She neither wished nor felt disposed to interrupt its influence, by any observations of her own at the time. Their ride, therefore, was mostly a silent one. What remarks occasion required, she made in a tone of gentle affection, neither marked by gloom nor vivacity.

When they reached home, George found his friend, Edward Burrel, waiting for him. When Mrs Henderson passed into the parlor, he joined George at the door, and said in a tone of merry exultation, "I waited for you a long time, George, because I was resolved not to go till I could see you, to tell you, I wish for your company this evening."

"I cannot go," said George.

"You must," said Edward: "not at our house, but at Mr Seymour's. The old gentleman and his wife have gone to New York. We shall have a fine time. I am sure the Reverend doctor will be there. I have been conning over some pretty knotty points to set upon him. I think I shall worry him tonight."

George hardly had patience to listen.

Never was

there a more unfortunate moment for Edward Burrel to have given such an invitation; and could Mrs Henderson have dictated a circumstance to fix and confirm the impression she wished to have made on George's mind, she could not have devised one more to her purpose; to such, under Providence, she had trusted, in conjunction with reason and affection, to produce the change she so ardently desired. George made a hasty excuse of engagement; but when pushed, truth obliged him to confess it was only a mental one, and that his feelings were just now adverse to the proposed plans. He was, therefore, pressed no further; and, jumping into the chaise, drove off, leaving his young friend in amazement at the change in his former associate.

Having resigned the horse and chaise to proper care, George felt for a moment undetermined whither to direct his steps. He inquired mentally of himself, "To take his usual walk on the Mall, or on Fort Hill,

or over the Western Avenue? No: he would meet a busy world, just at the sunsetting hour, and he wished not then to mingle with a crowd.-A visit to some of his young friends? Which? Each of his friends of both sexes presented themselves in idea; but he shook his head as they were contemplated in succession. One was trifling; another sarcastic; this one a coquette; that one a fop; he was selfish; she cold-hearted; this weakminded, that dogmatical; none were inviting at that moment; most were ignorant, and some impious. "I will go by myself," he said, "and commune with my own heart." And thus deciding, he turned his steps towards his father's house.

It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to trace out the course of his reflections, as he paced back and forth in his room; stopping now and then to gaze on the gorgeous sky, where multitudes of clouds, piled mountain high, were reflecting the burning rays of the lately departed sun, and speaking a joy of nature, totally in opposition to his present feelings. And when, after the sombre hues of night had wrapped every object in a darkness more congenial to his state of mind, he seated himself at the open window, and laid his head back to feel on his burning forehead the cool night air; still, it would be a vain attempt to reduce to language the various and contending emotions of his heart. The trains of thought that rapidly passed and repassed through his deeply touched and excited mind, defied all order and expression.

"What a scene I have witnessed, and how has my soul been smitten this afternoon; and how did my mother's last words, in our ride out, burn into my heart! And with such feelings as I have seen manifested in that house of death, and with which my mother so truly sym

pathizes, how must her kind heart have been wrung with anguish, by my late conduct and the expression of such opinions and sentiments as mine! And how I have exulted in possessing and declaring those sentiments! And how often urged her, in no filial manner, to hear me defend my opinions! And she, with the temper of an angel, never harshly reproving-never uttering one word of reproach-never exclaiming at my folly, or protesting against my wickedness! But wicked and cruel I have been, thus to torture the heart of a fond mother! Of such a mother! Thus to exasperate and provoke a father, who was kind and forbearing beyond measure, since he understood, as I now do, the grief of my mother's soul at my unfeeling conduct. A wretch indeed I am, such as I never before conceived myself to be; and deserving the severest censure instead of that unwearied tenderness of affection which I have received."

It was not that George was struck with any sudden conviction of the truth of that revelation which he had denied and derided; or that he was oppressed with a painful sense of his sins, as he thought they must appear to the all-seeing eye of God. These were feelings and convictions that were yet far off. He had indeed been deeply impressed by the simple and unaffected manifestation of christian faith at such an hour; by the great support and comfort it afforded in the season of suffering and sorrow. He had been struck with amazement and awe to perceive the triumph over the fear of death, and the joyful hope, which it gave to the dying Christian. All that he had observed had made a deep impression; but the feeling which now was strongest and best defined, was a sense of his error and baseness, in ridiculing and striving to remove from those who possessed it, this lively

and operative belief. He called to mind the observation his mother had made to him, that when pride and prejudice allowed him to examine the subject candidly, he would perceive it to be a dictate of benevolence to conceal within his own bosom his disbelief, and would consider it cruelty to utter a word that could raise a doubt in the mind of a believer. He sighed deeply when he remembered the mild rebuke of his mother; and he resolved, whatever his religious views and opinions continued to be, he would studiously avoid expressing his sentiments; and by renewed attention to his parents, endeavor to restore peace to their hearts as far as sincerity would permit. Having in some degree soothed his feelings by these reflections and resolutions, he sat another hour, musing, and gazing at the starry heavens, which, to every mind of lively sensibility and active thought, opens many treasures for feeling and speculation. There was much to swell his bosom, and it did swell. And he at least had perception of great and glorious truths, as he silently traced his way, in imagination, to those bright unknown bodies, and felt with awe and rapture, that "the hand which made them is divine." same hand," said he, rising, and again gently pacing his room, "The same almighty agency made me also; gave me this thinking principle so restless within; and adapted my external form to it. That I have a being, and do exist, I feel, and am sure; it is not a subject to reason about; it is a self-evident proposition, which nothing can prove or disprove. Here I am. That I did not form myself is equally certain. That Infinite Mind is the author of my being, and all things that I behold in the natural world, I must acknowledge, because it is the most rational of all the suppositions which I can make: and let me account

"The